


Three Questions (Remix)

by annelesbonny



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:56:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annelesbonny/pseuds/annelesbonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Then why?” Fenris looks up at him with raw, tired eyes. “Why are you different with me than you are with the others?”</p>
<p>Hawke stares. Was he? In truth, he prefers Fenris’ company in many things, gravitates towards him in battle, comforted by his presence at his back, seeks him out regularly, perhaps more so than the others, and maybe he tries a little too hard to get Fenris to smile, and laughs too loud and looks too long in his presence… Oh, Maker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Questions (Remix)

Three Questions (Remix)

 

* * *

 

 

** i  .  what was it like to love him?**

 

Fenris does not have a drinking problem, at least he doesn't consider it a problem, perhaps a minor character flaw, but not a _problem_. Hawke, on the other hand, thinks it might be a problem. Not that he’ll say anything, of course, certainly not about the wreckage of empty, shattered wine bottles littering the floor of Fenris’ mansion like glittering, sharp reminders of the things Hawke knows Fenris will never tell him. So he contents himself with watching Fenris in the dusty light of the Hanged Man from over the lip of his own mug, half full with watery, piss-colored ale, and wonders how one might hypothetically go about suggesting to a prickly, bad-tempered elf with unfairly soulful eyes that he has a problem and that problem is drinking. 

 

Hawke’s pretty sure the others didn’t notice, in fact, he knew they didn’t, and would have more than a little to say about the fact that Hawke had. He takes a long drink, and grimaces at the taste. He isn’t drunk enough yet for the Hanged Man’s special brew to taste good. Hawke stretches his long legs out under the table, and shifts his attention back to the rest of his friends. Isabela on his right, laughing loudly and bawdily at her own filthy joke, which even had Aveline grinning. Varric on his left, deep in conversation with Anders and Merrill, their voices low and serious, but Hawke knows better: they’ve been talking about the epidemic of homeless cats in Lowtown for the last hour. Come tomorrow, there almost certainly would be several new, smaller, furrier additions to his ragtag family. 

 

Fenris is next to Isabela, a healthy distance from Merrill, and drinking steadily, had been drinking steadily since he arrived. A full, spring moon shines through the grimy window behind his head, setting silver hair alight, drawing Hawke’s eyes to him once again, like a rather pathetic moth to a particularly bright flame, and he thinks no, no one watches Fenris like he does. He’s not sure when it started, exactly, though if he’s not lying to himself, it was the moment they met, blood in the air and dripping from Fenris’ clenched fist, the remains of a once beating heart.

 

Poetic, in a violent, bloody sort of way. Which, Hawke supposes, is only right. Ferris is beautiful in battle, fast and lithe, graceful finesse and brutal strength at the same time, broadsword singing as it cleaves through bone. But once the fighting stops and everything goes quiet, the smoke clears and they come back together, Fenris remains at his side. He must know how Hawke looks at him because he looks back sometimes, too, when they’re alone. When they fall into soft, light-hearted banter, only the thick, splintering table between them and the ghosts of the shadows in Fenris’ mansion. 

 

Tonight, however, was different. 

 

Fenris arrived late to their game of Wicked Grace, a dark look in his eyes, flashing green in the moonlight before the Hanged Man’s heavy door banged shut behind him. He started in on the wine immediately. Several hours later, he was almost swaying in his seat, the dark look still there, haunting his expression. Coming to a decision, Hawke stands up. 

 

“Excellent game, a real effort, guys, and Isabela didn’t even lose her clothes,” he says, and makes a show of yawning. 

 

Isabela slaps his arm none too lightly. 

 

“We were not playing Strip Wicked Grace,” she reminds him, knocking back the rest of her ale. 

 

Hawke frowns, “Aren’t we always?”

 

“No.” Fenris and Aveline say immediately.

 

“Huh. We should fix that. Anyways, I’m done for the night. Walk back with me, Fenris?” Hawke asks, trying to keep the suggestion mild and unassuming, but judging by the look on Varric’s face, failing on both accounts. 

 

To his surprise, Fenris only hesitates a moment before nodding. He stands with care, planting each foot firmly and Hawke resists the urge to go to his side when he sways. They’ve known each other for years now, working and fighting side by side. Fenris no longer flinches at the bright flare of his magic, or watches him warily with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but lines have been carefully drawn and diligently maintained that Hawke knows better than to cross even though, and perhaps particularly when, it makes him ache. Instead, he waits for Fenris to come to him.

 

It’s pleasantly cool outside the tavern, and the night settled into a quiet calm; neither Hawke or Fenris chose to break it. They make it to Hightown with no difficulty, a blessing as Hawke’s head still buzzes with alcohol and Fenris is more than a little drunk. Hawke shortens his longer stride, conscious of Fenris’ breathing, unusually labored and when his normally graceful gait falters, Hawke clenches his fists at his sides and does not reach out to steady him.

 

Though his place is arguably closer, Hawke walks Fenris to his door, hesitating for a moment before reaching out and touching his shoulder gently.

 

“Goodnight,” he says quietly.

 

Fenris looks down. 

 

“I know what you are doing.”

 

Hawke, moving to leave, turns back to him, his expression open, surprised. 

 

“What?”

 

Fenris makes a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat. His hands, free tonight of their gauntlets, are surprisingly small, calloused, but trembling. When he meets Hawke’s eyes again, his own are overly bright and very green. 

 

“You look at me, and you are kind, when you don’t have to be. I don’t- What do you want from me, Hawke?” 

 

He says the last part quietly, his eyes once again slipping away from Hawke’s and he presses his hands to his forehead.

 

“I-nothing, Fenris, I don’t want anything from you. Nothing you would not willing give.” Hawke fumbles, desperate to soothe him and helpless to know how.

 

“Then why?” Fenris looks up at him with raw, tired eyes. “Why are you different with me than you are with the others?”

 

Hawke stares. Was he? In truth, he preferred Fenris’ company in many things, gravitated towards him in battle, comforted by his presence at his back, sought him out regularly, perhaps more so than the others, and maybe he tried a little too hard to get Fenris to smile, and laughed too loud and looked too long in his presence… Oh, Maker. 

 

Fenris stands in front of him, arms wrapped around himself, defensive, but also surprisingly vulnerable, an effect of the alcohol, certainly. Hawke had assumed, had thought that of course Fenris knew, knew and had chosen to ignore the extra attention, but, Hawke realized with a sour, nauseous feeling in his gut which had nothing to do with the shitty ale, that in his former life, anyone with an interest in Fenris was not likely to wait around for a signal that their advances were wanted.

“I, _fuck_ , I like you.” Hawke says, agitated, tugging a hand through his hair. “I like being around you, I like how you look, your smile. I walked you home because I wanted to. I just- I just like you.”

 

Hawke looks at Fenris helplessly.

 

“Oh,” Fenris says quietly, the tips of his ears redden in what is most definitely a trick of the light. “I had not realized.”

 

Hawke sighs and rubs at his eyes, too tired and too drunk.

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

He smiles a little lopsidedly and reaches out slowly, watching Fenris’ eyes for any sign of discomfort, and tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear. When Fenris doesn’t flinch or move away, he lets his hand linger, just for a moment.

 

“You’re my friend,” Hawke says softly. “I like you. No ulterior motive.”

 

Struck by inspiration, he holds out his little finger, which Fenris glares at suspiciously.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Here, just hook your finger around mine, like that.”

 

Fenris complies, a small, concentrated frown appearing between his eyebrows. Hawke grins, curling his finger around Fenris’ smaller, slender one, and then lets go.

 

“There,” he says, satisfied.

 

“Did that mean something?” Fenris asked, staring at his hand, and Hawke’s. “It’s not a custom that I am familiar with.”

 

Hawke shrugs.

 

“Just a thing I used to do when I was little, with Bethany.” 

 

His smile falters, and then returns brighter because Fenris is looking at him like that, no longer hesitant or nervous, the slightest edge of a returning smile curving his mouth. 

 

“It’s a promise.” 

 

_ (It was like being exhumed, I answered. And brought to life in a flash of brilliance.) _

 

** ii.  what was it like to lose him? **

 

It’s the note that breaks him, finally. Such a small thing, a carefully folded piece of lavender scented paper placed on the desk where he was sure to see it. Hawke walks his uncle out, reeling in his grief, and he sees it, the damned note from his mother, the last one she would ever write. 

 

_Darling, would you pick up that wool I like from Jean’s? The blue, please, it matches your eyes._

 

_Love, Mother_

 

He’d forgotten the wool, of course. It seemed unimportant at the time, a task he could always do later. He could always-

 

He stumbles up the stairs, eyes blurring with tears that wouldn’t fall, trapped like he was in this empty mansion, no sister, no brother, no mother. He’ll bury her at least, not like Bethany, not like Carver left to beast and nature, alone and unprotected. He had been there for their first breath and their last, perhaps it was a blessing that his mother would not live to see the last of her children die. 

 

The Orlesian imported whiskey burns down his throat like dragon’s fire and pools in his belly. Hawke drinks until the reds and golds and greens of his bedroom walls swim and swirl in front of his eyes; it reminds him of the finger paintings Bethany used to make, the corner damp from where Carver tried to chew on it, Mother laughing and promising to keep it forever. They were right there in front of him, if he could only reach out…

 

The bottle slips from Hawke’s numb fingers and tips over at his feet, soaks his boots. He stares at his hands, empty and limp in his lap. Time passes, he thinks. Eventually, the bedroom door creaks open, followed by the sound of light footsteps, mostly bare feet on the cold wood floor; he’d recognized Fenris anywhere. Hawke doesn’t look up, and Fenris sits next to him, the bed dips only slightly with his weight. His thigh presses against Hawke’s, surprisingly warm.

 

“I do not know what good it will do, but I am here,” he says softly.

 

Hawke squeezes his eyes shut, the room tilts dangerously, the alcohol unsettled in his stomach.

 

Dry fingers touch his cheek, his forehead, down to his chin. 

 

“You are chilled,” Fenris frowns. “May I start a fire?”

 

Hawke shrugs, although the motion sents him retching, his head spinning and his stomach rebelling. Fenris is there, rubbing circles into his back, hesitant, comforting. Familiar, even after so many years, this thing between them, which they do not speak about, but cannot ignore. It only makes Hawke feel sicker. He staggers to his feet. 

 

“I can’t-“ Hawke falters, and Fenris’ hand drops to the bed. 

 

Backing up, Hawke stumbles into the wall, slides down to the floor. Finally, he raises his eyes to meet Fenris’ gaze.

 

“What am I supposed to do?”

 

Fenris hesitates, his fingers pick at the fraying hem of his shirt, his expression distant, but soft, tinged with a sadness both familiar and utterly foreign. After a moment, he kneels in front of Hawke, who reaches for him, fingers curling desperately around his shoulders. Fenris presses their foreheads together. Hawke’s hand gravitates to the back of his neck, his pulse beats strongly beneath his fingertips. 

 

“I can tell you only this,” Fenris murmurs, eyes closed. “You move forward. No matter what, never stop moving. When you stop, it catches you.”

 

He opens his eyes and looks at Hawke, who does nothing but stare back, enraptured. If he could only trace the lines of his face forever, perhaps then he could forget. 

 

Hawke touches Fenris’ cheek, lingers, his skin is warm, flushed, and Hawke is so very, very cold.

 

“I never deserved you,” he whispers and lets his hand fall.

 

Fenris sits back on his heels, as if the distance made either of them safe. He exhales slowly, shakily, and wipes his eyes.

 

“I cannot stay.”

 

“I know. But perhaps,” Hawke hesitates. “Just for tonight?”

 

Fenris smiles, a sad and beautiful thing. 

 

“For tonight.”

 

_ (It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me- said all at once.) _

 

** iii.  what was it like to be loved in return?**

 

“This is not happening.”

 

“Oh, it’s happening.”

 

“Pinch me, I must be dreaming.”

 

“Ow, Varric!” Isabela growls and Varric chuckles. 

 

Hawke is only partially listening to them, most of his attention focuses on the increasingly handsy elf on his right. They’re celebrating, technically, because Kirkwall seemed to finally be taking a breath. Nothing catastrophic had happened for a week, tensions eased for now and the city entered into a fragile calm. Hawke has no intention of wasting it. 

 

The night started innocently enough, a few rounds of Wicked Grace at the Hawke mansion quickly turned into a drinking game for which everyone seemed to have their own rules. Fenris, unsurprisingly starting it all by declaring that he would drink every time Anders opened his mouth and nonsense came out. Anders, equally unsurprisingly, had immediately launched into a tirade which had Hawke reaching for his own bottle because he had chosen to drink every time Fenris’ eye did that twitching thing. Varric just drank steadily, laughing at them all. As for Isabela, she took increasingly smug shots every time she made Merrill blush. Aveline despaired of them all while Donnic pressed tipsy kisses to her cheek. 

 

That was three hours ago. Since then, things had devolved significantly. Merrill was sleeping on the floor. Anders sits next to Isabela, his legs stretched out in front of him, still occasionally muttering to himself. Aveline and Donnic had ditched them for a spare bedroom awhile ago. 

 

Hawke was beginning to think that they had the right idea. He grabs Fenris’ hand before it could wander any further down his leg and tangles their fingers together. Fenris makes a small noise of displeasure.

 

“We have company, love.” Hawke reminds him, though the happy buzz in his head and Fenris pressing into his side, affectionate and relaxed, has him increasingly open to remedying that situation. 

 

“Make them leave.” Fenris growls, and pulls Hawke down into a kiss, lips parting and eager.

 

Hawke falls back hard against the back of the couch, and Fenris immediately climbs onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Hawke’s hands fall to his hips, and Fenris presses impossibly closer, hands bracing against his chest.

 

“By the _Maker_ , boys.”

 

With a gasp, Hawke breaks the kiss and shifts, uncomfortably warm. Among other things. In a testament to how truly wasted he is, Fenris simply huffs in annoyance and buries his face in Hawke’s neck. 

 

“Oh, don’t stop on account of me.” Isabela smirks.

 

“Please do stop on account of me.” Anders begs.

 

“Uh.” Hawke says. “We’re just gonna…go.”

 

He stand up, Fenris moves only to wrap his legs around his waist, now pressing a line of open-mouthed kisses from Hawke’s shoulder up his neck. He pulls back and looks down at Hawke, his eyes glassy with alcohol.

 

“Your shoulders are so _big_.”

 

Varric chokes on his beer, coughing until tears run down his face.

 

Isabela laughs so hard she has to sit down, landing with a thud next to Merrill, who makes a contented sound in her sleep and shifted closer. 

 

Anders closes his eyes. 

 

Fenris runs his hands over Hawke’s shoulders, fingers prodding curiously, his expression breathtakingly open and intensely focused. 

 

“Fenris, what are you doing?” Hawke asks, a little desperately.

 

“But _how_ are they so big?”

 

“We’re going now, don’t break anything.” Hawke says loudly, over Isabela and Varric’s raucous laughter, and carries Fenris, who is still staring bemusedly at his shoulders, out of the room. 

 

Once safely inside his bedroom, Hawke dumps Fenris on the bed and is promptly pulled down on top of him. Fenris kisses him eagerly, happily, and Hawke braces one arm over his head and kisses him back, pressing him into the bed. 

 

Fenris rolla his hips, and Hawke, with a tinge of regret, pulla away and rolla onto his back next to him.

 

“Why did you stop?” Fenris asks sleepily.

 

“You’re drunk.”

 

“So are you.”

 

“Come here.”

 

Fenris settles in next to Hawke, head pillowed on his chest, head just under his chin. Hawke tightens his arm around his slimmer frame, drew patterns, letters, promises on the soft skin of his back. His buzz fades into tired contentment. Fenris makes a small sound of contentment, slides his hand into Hawke’s, eyes already closed. 

 

Something crashes in another part of the mansion, followed by Isabela’s voice and then Varric’s, Ander’s laughter. Hawke buries his nose in Fenris’ hair, and inhales softly, sweat and lemon soap.

 

They're okay. They're going to be okay.

 

_ (It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.) _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Original poem "Three Questions" by Lang Leav:
> 
> What was it like to love him ? Asked Gratitude.  
> It was like being exhumed, I answered. And  
> brought to life in a flash of brilliance.
> 
> What was it like to be loved in return ? Asked Joy.  
> It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I  
> replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.
> 
> What was it like to lose him ? Asked Sorrow.  
> There was a long pause before I responded :
> 
> It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to  
> me—said all at once.


End file.
